


Yours, Hanschen

by mirrorbluenight



Category: Frühlings Erwachen | Spring Awakening - Frank Wedekind, Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: 1930s, 1940s, Abuse, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Nazi Germany, Alternate Universe - World War II, Broadway, DWSA - Freeform, Deaf West, Depression, Drama, F/F, F/M, Friendship, I don't know how many tags to put here, Love, Love Letters, M/M, Multi, Romance, War, World War II, hernst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-04-29 10:15:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14470476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirrorbluenight/pseuds/mirrorbluenight
Summary: That’s a name he hasn’t let himself speak since the war-- since the silver linings, the ghosting of lips against his, laughs across the table, hushed hands on his stomach, warmth within his chest-- but his lips form around it now as he echoes: “Hanschen.” Ernst dislocates the protruding plank, tossing it aside to remove the topmost letter. Clouds of exhalation brush discolored paper. His heart thuds wildly. He delicately opens the folded paper, as if it risks crumbling at the slightest touch. A smile is plastered on Ernst’s face, but tears pool onto the words, already warped by someone else’s long-ago weeping. Ernst parts his chapped lips to whisper the first sentence to the air, clutching onto both the vibrations of his throat and the bent puzzle pieces haphazardly pieced together in his mind: “I first met you in Warsaw on June 23rd, 1932. It was a Saturday."





	1. Prologue

**~1955~**

 

Ernst approaches the splintered bench with an unspoken solemnity about him. He feels his loafers’ heels click on stone beneath his feet, sharp patterings ricocheting in his mind as he adjusts the hat nestled atop his dark curly mop. He tugs at the sleeves of his woolen coat; it goes unfastened and flaps in the breeze. Pulls at the hem of his buttoned cardigan. Adjusts his tie. The belt supporting his creased trousers.

Gloved hands folded primly, he lowers himself onto the seat.

Slowly, fingertips trace unseen words into the plywood: _Nur für Juden!_ Only for Jews. Ernst sits motionless for a long time, staring. Those letters, though they no longer adorn the benches here, are forever engraved into Ernst’s soul, carving into his conscience, beckoning memories he wished did not exist. He suppresses them, more often than not. There were good ones, too-- silver linings, the ghosting of lips against his, laughs across the table, hushed hands on his stomach, warmth within his chest-- but even those were laced with melancholy.

Ernst’s gaze drifts upward to land on the apartment building across the sidewalk. An inhalation of Polish cold pierces his lungs, nestles in the pit of his chest, and makes residence there. It doesn’t attempt to slip free from the clutches of its newfound cavity; rather, it spiders out in wiry tendrils and contracts around his heart, interlacing chambers and atriums with paralyzing memories.

The building itself is nothing short of ordinary. It looks like every other dwelling along the street: cold, ominous, grim, wearied. One could practically hear the cries of despair reverberating through all the desolation. Ernst can definitely hear it. Every last whimper.

The second floor: all of the futile lamentations conjoin into one resounding cacophony. Ernst fixates his vision on the window second from the right. There. It never once felt like a home, but it was all the Robajdeks knew to hold on to for two endless years. Two years of pain and hunger and desperation and loss. Eternity. Heartbreak. Love.

A youthful face edges its way into his mind then: a girl. Her doe eyes are the same hue of green as the grass before the war. After everything, the world became entirely devoid of color for Ernst, which he accepted complacently. No color, no sound, and that is fine, even when he himself is not fine. At least _something_ remains constant. Regardless, the girl... her eyes are always the most luminous, like the Polish countryside. In the window of a corner store or the reflection of a sidewalk puddle— it doesn’t matter. She’s always there, always vigilant.

Sometimes, Ernst even hears her melodious voice in his mind, like a chorus of angels singing canticles in his ear. Except they come across more so like a murmur fragmented together from recollection. The state of his hearing declined into silence even more sharply following liberation. But like the dark colorless cloud gathering overhead, Ernst accepted it. It’s not like he had anyone left to hear or speak to. So the angels-- they, too, hum mere memories.

And the specter-- Ernst dreads the day when she abandons him. Living devoid of physical companionship is one thing, but to be truly, utterly alone…

It would not end well, he thinks.

“ _Ernst.”_

His eyes find her through the glass pane of the window, second from the right. She presses a ghostly palm to the glass, leaving an imprint in the dewy frost. Her eyes plead.

 _“Here.”_    

Instantly, Ernst is on his feet, trembling in his barreling toward the apartment building. A crash pierces the morose quiet; the door slams into the wall. He doesn’t bother closing it, nor is he fazed by the loudness of the collision. He feels the vibration through his feet.

After a single flight of stairs, Ernst faces a corridor he hasn’t seen in over a decade.

A minute passes.

Footprints etch themselves into the thin film of floorboard dust, fossilizing traces of Ernst’s presence. He finds slight solace in the imprints created in his wake-- his only companions. With them, he advances down the hallway, at one point stopping to press his forehead to one of the walls, cracked and peeling under the weight of long-gone whispers and the cruel passage of time. Ernst presses his eyelids together. His teeth clench soft skin until he tastes the iron of his own blood.

_I’m alive._

Dust particles drift freely through the air, backlit by cool rays cast into the hallway through the window at the opposite end. When Ernst’s eyelids retract, he absorbs the scene. He feels underwater.

A minute passes.

He continues walking until he reaches the doorway second to the right.

Mirroring others in the building, the one-room space was missing its door; it was undoubtedly torn from its hinges, likely put to use by local scavengers for firewood. A fleeting thought: _I hope they stayed warm._

Ernst glides a finger along the jagged wood absentmindedly, peering into the room as if he were seeing it for the first time.

The partitions had been removed from the thin rope still stretching from one wall to the other, but whoever took them had left clothespins clamped to the line. The room was otherwise been cleared of all furnishings, save the old rocking chair positioned before the window. Why the ransackers left that particular chair, Ernst doesn’t know. Maybe they had already gathered everything they could manage. Maybe the object appealed to their emotions as it does Ernst’s, and they left it there as a sort of memoir. Either way, the chair is excruciatingly painful to look at.

Turning away, Ernst’s eyes narrow on a floorboard in the far corner of the room. One of its nails is partially uprooted, and it protrudes crookedly from the plywood. The other nails had been removed altogether. Ernst allows an almost imperceptible smile to cross his lips. _They can take anything they want from this room,_ he thinks, _but they can’t take this away from me._

Letters. In a single pile of disarray, folded carefully but crinkled at the edges, they call out to him. And though the ghostly visage is nowhere in sight, he hears her voice from within the stack. _“Hanschen,”_ she says.

That’s a name he hasn’t let himself speak in years, but his lips form around it now as he echoes her: “Hanschen.”

Ernst dislocates the protruding plank, tossing it aside to remove the topmost letter. Clouds of exhalation brush discolored paper. His heart thuds wildly. Strokes of ink join together in familiar scrawl to form one name:

_Ernst._

He delicately opens the folded paper, as if it risks crumbling at the slightest touch. A smile is plastered on Ernst’s face, but tears pool onto the words, already warped by someone else’s long-ago weeping.

The specter is back now, and she sits staring at him with her legs crossed. She reaches for Ernst’s hand, gathers it in her palm like a dying flame.

Ernst parts his chapped lips to whisper the first sentence to the cold air, clutching onto both the vibrations of his throat and the bent puzzle pieces haphazardly pieced together in his mind:

 

 _“I first met you on June 23rd, 1932. It was a Saturday."_  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I feel the need to explain my perspective in this footnote: I understand war and the horrible atrocities that occurred during WWII specifically are not things to romanticize, and that they are more than just vessels for nostalgic, smutty fanfiction. My intention in writing this piece is never to offend or to dilute the severity/historical accuracy of the time period. Right now, one of my majors at university is German, and I’m also pursuing a history minor. So I view this as a learning experience more than anything. I’ve spent so much time on this narrative trying to preserve its accuracy and fine-tune the timeline. Hernst is just the window through which I am attempting to educate and become educated. And I want to share that with you guys, too.
> 
> Please leave me all the comments; we stan constructive feedback! I hope you enjoy this fic and maybe learn something new from it. Maybe I’ll insert fun history facts in the footnotes at the end of each chapter for some #context. Thanks for the read! :)


	2. When Ernst Met Hanschen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ironically, it was practically the opposite of "love at first sight."

  **~1932~**

 

_Thud._

Ernst crumpled to the ground with a gasp, hand flying up to his face reflexively. A football, having just made impact, rebounded into the bustling street.

An unfamiliar voice yelled, “ _Beweg, Dummkopf!”_ (which Ernst appropriately interpreted as, “Move, idiot!”).

Ernst’s eyes watered with pain. He inhaled sharply, tasted blood in his mouth. By the time he cracked an eye open, there were two new feet three inches from his face. He tilted his head upward.

“Honestly,” it was the same voice, “you’d think you would’ve seen that coming. Are you blind or deaf?”

Ernst blinked.

“Come on, out with it, kid.”

The boy was tall and blonde, his hair trimmed like a proper German’s but damp with sweat and tousled across a glistening forehead. A furrowed brow lowered over eyes bluer than any Ernst had ever seen. Perspiration trickled from jawline into clavicle, just barely visible above the collar of a white t-shirt, saturated with sweat and clinging to his toned frame. He was panting, his cheeks flushed, and one hand rested on his hips expectedly.

Ernst blinked.

“Alright. Deaf, then?” Beyond annoyed.

Melchior stepped forward then. “Ernst, hold on.” Ernst had almost forgotten he was still there. “Just who gives you the r—” But Ernst held up a hand. He stood.

“You hit me,” Ernst retorted, noting with some satisfaction that he was the taller of the two. “ _Dummkopf_.”

The blonde raised an eyebrow, recognizing the Polish lilt in Ernst’s German. “Watch yourself, Pole.” He took a confrontational step closer but two hands restrained him from behind.

“Hanschen, stop,” a mild voice protested. It was shaky and nervous and belonged to a shorter boy likely Ernst’s age. His hair was all askew and he appeared frazzled. “He’s kind of right, I think. We should’ve been more careful. Maybe. That’s just what I think.”

The blonde— Hanschen— rolled his eyes and shook off the hands clutching his wrists. Melchior successfully interjected this time; his voice suggested he was frustrated by his present lack of authority. “Moritz is right, not that you ever give him the time of day.” The words were bitter. “Apologize, Hanschen.”

 _Moritz?_ thought Ernst. _Does Melchior know these...?_

Hanschen visibly bristled. “I don’t need to listen to _you_ of all people, Gabor, traipsing around with these Easterners like you’re the Messiah or something. Everyone around here recognizes you for the fake that you are. Running off to a group of nobodies only makes you look more pathetic.”

Ernst glanced at Melchi, trying to read his expression. The German maintained composure, mostly, but Ernst identified a fracture of vulnerability there he’d never before seen.

“You’re a goddamn—” started Melchior. Ernst cut him off.

“And what does that make you, _Hanschen?”_ He spit out the name with blood from his lip. Ernst felt… _enraged_ . The feeling was absurdly foreign. “You’re so threatened by Melchior’s being here that you feel the need to assert your dominance like some sort of territorial Neanderthal.” Moritz’s eyes widened. Melchi looked almost nervous. Ernst was nervous, too, really; confrontation was not characteristic of himself and he knew it.  Most days it felt as though Ernst’s mind was barred by a floodgate. “Why?” The floodgate parted. “Because he’s out there doing something with himself? Unlike you, hiding behind your _Nazi—_ ” he spat out the word, “father, no doubt, playing football day in and out because it’s the only thing you’re good for besides—”

_Thud._

Well, actually, it was more like a _crack_ that time.

Hanschen shook out his fist, knuckles pulsing, running the other hand through his hair.

Ernst gasped. Stars. Why were there stars? They peppered Hanschen’s face and saturated the sky behind him.

“Your pretty Polish boy speaks German well. Very good, _Herr Gabor_ .” Hanschen’s tone was nothing but condescending. “Maybe next you should teach him to know when to bite his tongue.” His boot planted itself right next to Ernst’s face, and he brought himself down to squat. Ernst could see flecks of dirt on the cuffs of Hanschen’s trousers. “Assumptions concerning my father,” his voice was low, “do not belong in your mouth. I don’t want his name soiled—” he placed a finger on Ernst’s pulsing lip, “—by the foul taste of Gabor’s _dick_.”

Nobody said a word for a long time; the air was dense. And it was Hanschen who sliced through the quiet.

“And I was _not_ threatened by his being here.” The sentence was mumbled, and his eyes stayed low. Hanschen’s lips opened, as if considering adding another biting comment, but he decided to clamp them shut, stand, spin on his heel, and saunter off.

Moritz cast an apologetic glance toward Melchi, whose words were quiet and strangely gentle. “It’s alright. Go. I’ll find you later.” Moritz scurried away in pursuit of Hanschen.

“Fuck, Ernst,” Melchior breathed. “What the hell. You can’t just...” He knelt down to assess the damage.

“I’m fine,” Ernst gasped, scarlet-tinted spit dripping from his lip. He could already feel swelling inflating his jaw. “I’m fine.” He wiped a lone tear from underneath his eye. Had that been there the whole time? “You Germans are the worst.”

Melchior snorted. “Just wait ‘til you meet Bobby Maler.”

 

* * *

 

Two years prior, at fourteen, Ernst befriended Melchior Gabor— an unlikely pairing, admittedly, and not just because of the three-year age gap. Melchior was raised German, from Berlin, but spoke near-perfect Polish; his father was a highly qualified language professor. His mother, too, was educated far beyond her peers and, according to him, actively educated her children in philosophy. Melchi— a nickname Ernst himself coined— had therefore come to love teaching the children on Ernst’s block all about the German language and the radical hypotheses he considered his own.

Children congregated in the alley. Melchi stood, chest puffed and eyes gleaming. He rose above the small crowd by a mere three inches, but when you’re fourteen, three inches is the equivalent to a thousand feet.  

With outstretched arms, Melchior called to his disciples, and they were drawn forward like moths to flame.

The lesson always began the same way. Melchior introduced himself as _Herr Gabor,_ then recounted a tale of his travels with his scholarly, nomadic parents. Every story was preposterously illustrious, and if anything, the children returned every day only to hear the swashbuckling Gabor speak. He’d meditated in the mountains of Peru and roved the ruins of Machu Picchu, dined on the floors of swamis in India, and nobly fought bulls in Spain (sequined matador suit and all). Ernst often wondered if the tales were nothing more than fantasy.

He was an exceptional teacher for his age, Melchior, but conservative in equipping the local youth with too much information. “Keep them curious,” he explained to Ernst one day, hands behind his head as he reclined against the wall, legs crossed at the ankles. “Give the rest a little taste of what they could learn, but never dish out the entire meal. It keeps them hungry, and they crave the knowledge. They learn and learn, but they’ll never know as much as you—well, me—and they all _know_ that. So they keep coming back.”   

“And they view you as superior,” replied Ernst.

“Exactly. All that’s known in history and science— it all belongs to me. They have to earn it. I decide when they do.”

“You act like you’re their God.”

“Someone has to be.”

“They already have one.”

“Everyone thinks something is there for them until they’re not, Ernst. At least I’m consistent.”

Ernst was fairly pious back then. He shook off Melchi’s comment in the moment but would often find himself thinking about it in the years to come.

The improbable bond between the pair forged itself through the daily linguistics lessons, which, after many months of persuading on Ernst’s behalf, Melchi often extended long past the other children’s departures. The first day it happened, Ernst was shocked.

“Can I stay?” he asked Melchi for the fourth time that week, sitting cross-legged on the stone, hands flush to the ground. Ernst leaned forward, round brown eyes pleading. Melchi eyed him up and down; persistent though he was, Ernst could be overwhelmingly endearing. And he definitely wasn’t hard on the eyes.

“In German,” Melchi demanded. “ _Auf Deutsch_.”

Ernst amended his question. “ _Kann ich bliebe?”_

“Sure.” Unexpected. Quick. Exhilarating.

A breath. “What?” Ernst grinned. “Really?”

Melchior smirked. “Yes. Yeah, come on. Not here, though.” He extended a hand, palm upward toward the grey Warsaw sky, fingers curled slightly like a beckoning. Ernst delicately slipped his hand into Melchi’s, eyes raised as the German pulled him to his feet.

“Then where?” asked Ernst. Silence answered him— silence, and a sudden, forceful tug. Before he knew it, Ernst was sprinting down the street, giddy with excitement and trying best to match pace with Melchi. The Gabor boy, being far taller and athletic, easily pulled ahead, but their hands remained linked. Maybe passerby eyed the pair with suspicion, but Ernst didn’t notice. Melchior did notice; he just didn’t care.

Ernst stumbled a bit when Melchi unexpectedly grinded to a stop. Their breath played catch-up.

“ _Willkommen,_ ” beamed Melchior. “Welcome.”

Ernst looked around, scanning this new neighborhood he’d— surprisingly— never before explored. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Men and women strolled the sidewalks, sometimes with children and sometimes without. They dressed like the people in Ernst’s neighborhood, if not slightly nicer; ladies donned off-kilter caps and calf-length skirts and locked arms with dapper men in brimmed hats. The soft hum of chatter warmed the air. A soft whisper brushed the tree leaves overhead. The atmosphere was alight with children's laughter and the comforting smell of food. “Where are we, Melchi? Why here?”Again, Melchior offered no answer. He ran a hand across his gelled hair and made headway— more subdued now—  toward the busiest street corner. “Listen,” he implored Ernst, sitting down with spine pressed against the storefront erected there. Ernst lowered to the concrete. It was then he realized the people were speaking native German exclusively. He caught a few words here and there, thanks to Melchi’s instruction, but people were speaking so fast that, for the most part, he could barely distinguish anything recognizable. They were soft-spoken, too, but that was nothing new; it was a familiar nuisance, as he had trouble hearing things in general.

A frantic glance in Melchior’s direction. “Melchi, I can’t underst—”

“Shh. Just. Just listen.” Melchior was giddy with excitement, but it was different from that which Ernst had seen in him previously. This was less haughty and more… childlike. It was then Ernst remembered Melchior’s homeland.

“Is this is where you live now?” Ernst asked. “Is this the German part of Warsaw? I’ve never been—”

“Shh,” repeated Melchi, but he was nodding. “ _Listen_.”

They sat absorbing passing conversation for hours. Ernst noticed the sharpness of the language, the guttural R’s and skipped syllables, the curt words and the lengthy compound words, and he loved it. It was aggressive sometimes, but it was beautiful, too. He caught Melchior gauging his reactions with a smile plastered across his face more than once.

This quickly became a tradition. Almost every day for two years, the two boys would take off for the corner and Ernst would listen and Melchi would explain. It was beautiful and liberating, and the more Ernst learned the more Melchior saw himself reflected in Ernst. As bashful and timid as Ernst seemed, there was a quiet, strong resilience about him, and Melchior liked that. Resilience perseveres in the end, truly— much less the reckless outspokenness with which Melchi operated. It was by that same strength that, by 1932, Ernst became (1) fluent in German and (2) a lifelong friend of Melchior Gabor’s.

“Right, Ernst. _Los geht’s_ , we’re going to—”

_Thud._

Ernst crumpled to the ground with a gasp, hand flying up to his face reflexively. A football, having just made impact, rebounded into the bustling street.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that finals are over (BLESS), I can dedicate the next week to writing All The Hernst. :) I leave for a three-week study abroad in seven days, but ideally I'll have written enough that I can still publish so I don't leave the story hanging for a month.
> 
> —
> 
> Around this time in 1932:
> 
> 1) Paul von Hindenburg, president of Germany, finds his term coming to an end. Hitler is not yet Chancellor and won’t be until January 1933. Poland has not yet been invaded.
> 
> 2) The financially punitive aftermath of WWI and the Versailles Treaty has been amplified by The Great Depression— which has sparked worldwide repercussions. The German economy is in shambles. The people are anything but happy.
> 
> 3) Soon, in July, the Nazi Party will win around 37% of the seats in the Reichstag, securing themselves as the largest party in the Germany parliament.


End file.
